00 - Templar's Acre (17 page)

‘So, you returned at last?’

‘I came as soon as I could. The mob was in the street—’

‘Silence!’ Maria snapped, and gestured.

The servant shoved, and Lucia was thrown to the ground, moaning with the pain of scraped knees.

‘You went with that man Baldwin, did you not? You were seen in the street with him. Have you been whoring?’

‘No! No!’

‘Stop the snivelling – it doesn’t impress me. I think you fell back deliberately when we were hurrying home. Didn’t your friend want you when he learned you were a slave?
I thought so. You cannot trust these fine, chivalrous men. They take fresh rump when they can, but they are less keen on rotten meat.’

She went to the terrace, picking a rose and sniffing at it. ‘You have disappointed me, Lucia. Now answer truthfully: did you mention my business?’

‘No. Not at all.’

Maria crossed the floor, her leather slippers making no sound. ‘Tell me the truth, child.’

Lucia could feel tears welling. It didn’t matter that she was innocent. When Maria looked at her like that, it made her feel guilty.

‘I think you told him,’ Maria said softly. ‘And now you seek to come here to listen to my conversations. Was that the idea? You were to come here and spy for him? What, is he
from Venice?’

‘No! He is English.’

‘English? They are all pirates and felons,’ Maria said with contempt. She snapped her fingers. ‘Take her to the cellar and question her. I want to know what she told that man,
and I want the truth.’

When Ivo disembarked, he was glad of the sudden silence.

Aboard a ship, the constant din of creaking timbers, the whistle and hiss of wind about the ropes, became deafening after a short time. In the past he had enjoyed those sounds, because it
reminded him that the ship was like a living creature, a beast that could be soothed and cajoled into better behaviour. But at times the noises became a torment. He had spent long enough with the
sea for now, he thought.

He knocked on his door and waited impatiently until he heard the shuffle of his old servant Pietro. At last there was a rattle of the bolt, and the door swung open.

‘You took your time! And why only the bolt? Haven’t you used the other locks?’

‘There’s not so much to protect here.’

Ivo scowled. ‘As I walked here, I passed three places where there had been fires. Someone mentioned riots.’

‘Only little ones, and not here,’ his servant said mulishly, and turned to fetch him wine.

Ivo called after him, ‘If I could find a servant who was more civil, I’d throw you on to the street!’

‘I will find you one. I don’t need this complaining every day.’

Ivo fumed while he waited, and took the mazer ungraciously. ‘Where’s the boy?’

‘If you mean Master Baldwin, he’s out.’

‘Where?’

‘Taking his little wench home.’

‘What? The moment my back was turned he brought a whore to my house?’

Pietro glowered at his master. ‘Eh? He rescued her from the mob, that’s all. He’s an honourable young fellow.’

As he finished, there came a fresh knock at the door, and when Pietro opened it, Baldwin walked in. Seeing Ivo, he smiled. ‘I’m glad to see you back. The rioting today – you
should have seen it. I was worried they’d break into the place. It’s a relief to have you home. Was your voyage successful?’

‘That will be all, Pietro,’ Ivo said pointedly. The servant pulled a face, shrugged his shoulders, and slouched away. ‘Old fool!’ Ivo muttered. Then, ‘I hear you
had a woman here today?’

‘Yes. She was caught in the riots.’

‘Couldn’t you have taken her to her house? To a church? Why bring her here? I won’t have my house used as a . . .’

Baldwin’s face paled. ‘Don’t accuse me of that! I did nothing to her, and I wouldn’t, on my mother’s life.’

Ivo nodded. ‘My apologies,’ he said, and clapped him on the back. There was something in Baldwin’s face that caught his attention. And then he saw how Baldwin held himself,
favouring his flank. ‘What is it, boy? What have you done?’

Baldwin wanted to tell Ivo about the ride with Roger Flor, but he had promised not to speak of it. Still, Ivo might learn from another source, and then he would think Baldwin had been intending
to conceal his crimes, not from shame, but from a desire to repeat them. He might think Baldwin a dedicated mercenary. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘Show me.’

Baldwin lifted his arm and his shirt, and Ivo whistled. ‘This wasn’t today. How did this happen?’

Baldwin bent his head. ‘I did not realise he wanted me to join him on a raid,’ he began, and told the whole story.

‘That bastard! So, he traps you into joining him on the raid, and then ensures you run the risk of punishment for complicity? The shit!’

‘It was my error. What should I do?’

‘Nothing! He has you by the short hairs! If you accuse him, his men will deny it, in which case your punishment will be the same as theirs would have been, were they to be found guilty.
You must remain silent.’

‘The guilt tears at my soul.’

‘That is the way of guilt,’ Ivo said.

‘But I cannot bear more guilt!’

‘
More
guilt? What do you mean?’ Ivo demanded. ‘Come, I never asked you what you had done. I think it’s time I heard.’

‘I am here because I killed a man in England,’ Baldwin admitted quietly.

‘That was the sin you wished to expiate by coming here?’

Baldwin sighed. He trusted and liked Ivo. He didn’t want to spoil their friendship, but he wouldn’t keep this secret any longer.

‘When my father died, there was never any dispute of the inheritance. My brother is older by several years, and Furnshill is his. I was glad that the manor would go to Reynald.’

‘What happened?’

‘I fell in love. She was beautiful, Ivo. A round, smiling face, with eyes as green as emeralds, a happy, cheerful woman who would warm the heart of any man.’

Ivo listened in silence as Baldwin walked about the room distractedly.

‘I wanted to marry her. I offered her my hand, but when my brother heard, he was furious. He had been trying to marry me to a woman from the next manor so that I would have a secure
income, and,’ he raised a wan face, ‘here I was, proposing marriage to a peasant.’

‘You truly loved her?’

‘Sibilla, yes, I adored her. I refused my brother’s proposal, and he swore that I would not marry Sibilla. He threatened to evict her family.’

‘So you left?’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, ‘but not as you think. You see, I learned that she was pregnant.’ He saw Ivo’s face darken. ‘I had not touched her – it was another
man. She didn’t truly want me; it was her father, I think, who wished me to take her. There would be cachet in having a bastard son fathered by the brother of the manor’s
lord.’

‘I see. So, your eyes were opened.’

‘I saw them lying together, and in my rage, I killed him. Afterwards, I sought sanctuary in the cathedral. I was angry and bitter. I was torn from my brother, my home, my life. I felt I
could never be happy with another woman. But in the cathedral church, I heard God speak to me. Outside, a house was being torn down. A vicar told me it had belonged to the Dean, but he paid men to
murder a rival, and as penance he was pulling down his house in order to erect a chantry chapel. One churchman murdering another. That reminded me of Thomas á Becket, and his killers: to
atone for their sins, they came here, to the Holy Land, to fight for the cross.’

‘So you chose the same path?’

‘Yes. After speaking with the vicar I took up the cross.’ He looked over at Ivo. ‘You look sad. If you don’t want me here, I’ll understand.’

‘No, it is not you – it’s me. I’m thinking about my wife Rachel and Peter, my boy, who died in Tripoli. I miss them badly,’ Ivo said with a catch in his voice.

Baldwin eyed him. ‘I asked you once, what it was about visiting the Holy Sepulchre that made you feel whole again. That was what you said then. Was that your wife? Did you go there to ask
God about her?’

‘I wouldn’t presume to ask Him such a thing, no.’ Ivo sighed, and closed his eyes. At his age, he should be resting. After his journeys he was exhausted. But he had a
compulsion to explain. ‘When I came here with Prince Edward, I was high in his favour. Only a man-at-arms, but he respected me. It was a pleasure to serve him. I adored him.’

‘He turned from you?’

‘I failed him. He came to regain Jerusalem, but when he reached Outremer, he saw the bickering, the way the Orders would help their allies, the war between the Genoese and Venetians, and
he saw he’d never forge an army from so many disparate groups. So he negotiated. And the men who were his enemies grew alarmed, because they could see what many could not: that the Prince was
capable of making peace between rivals, and welding them into one army. So they sent a murderer to him.’

‘A murderer?’

‘An assassin. A mercenary paid to kill his victim and then die. They believe that they will be taken up to Heaven, if they die in that honourable way.’ He spat contemptuously.
‘Honourable! To try to murder an unarmed man! This fellow was disguised as a Christian, and used guile to get into the King’s tent. He was very convincing, you see. I couldn’t
help it. I let him inside, and told the Prince there was a message, and when my Prince came, the man drew a knife and stabbed him.’ Ivo closed his eyes and let his head fall into his hands.
‘It was awful. Blood, everywhere. I cut the assassin down, but his blade was poisoned, and it was only because Princess Eleanor sucked the poison from the wound that Prince Edward
lived.’

‘Well, that is good,’ Baldwin said.

‘I am glad that he survived. But the hatred in the Princess’s face, in her voice . . . it was enough to chill my blood. I left that night, and never returned. My Prince nearly died
because of my stupidity.’

Baldwin saw the tears silently running down his cheeks. He refilled their mazers as Ivo continued.

‘After that, I had no occupation, no Lord. I wandered, and one day I heard a sermon, and I heard that those who travelled to Jerusalem could be healed of any earthly offence. I went, I saw
the Holy Sepulchre, and I felt renewed. It was that which healed my heart.’

The two sat side-by-side, sipping wine as the sun fell and the evening grew cooler.

‘Don’t speak to anyone about the raid with Roger Flor,’ Ivo said at last. ‘I will deal with him.’

‘Will you tell the Grand Master?’

‘No. I’ll tell Flor that I know his secret. Hopefully he won’t try anything else like it.’
And if he does,
Ivo added silently,
I will personally see to it
that the Order punishes him.

Lady Maria was in a towering rage as she stalked back to her chamber. Snatching up a goblet, she was about to hurl it at the wall – but then forced herself to be calm.
She carefully set the glass on a table and sat sedately beside it, her hands in her lap.

She was not going to lose her temper. She needed to think.

The stupid wretch! Lucia knew Baldwin was an enemy to Buscarel, and after their capture of him, he would be resentful. A man like that was a danger to them. To Maria. She would have to dispose
of Lucia. It was infuriating, after so many years. When Maria had a need for a confidential messenger, Lucia was ideal. Maria had always been able to trust her. But no more. That trust had
gone.

Lady Maria sat on warm cushions and fabrics, swirling wine in her goblet. The news about the peace was interesting. Buscarel only cared about Genoa, of course. He had a particularly
single-minded focus. Anything that aided Genoa was good, all that hurt her, bad. Lady Maria had a more flexible view of the world.

Her husband had been a clever man, but a tyrant. His death had been a relief. She should not have suffered the indignities he forced upon her. He was a rural knight, when all was said and done,
not one to inspire affection, but the match had seemed a good one when he pressed his suit, linking his lands at Lydda with her family’s nearer Acre. It was only after their wedding that she
felt the rough end of his tongue, the clenched fist.

Since his death she had escaped Lydda to live here in Acre. She was still beautiful, as the number of her lovers attested. There would come a time when she could not attract, but the loss of her
beauty did not concern her so much as the loss of her lands. Lydda was a valuable asset, and no one would willingly lose land. It was the natural basis of wealth.

Her lover, Philip Mainboeuf, had assured her that Acre was safe. Well, perhaps so. His single-minded pursuit of money and trade with Egypt led him to believe that Qalawun did not want war, his
capture of Tripoli having been forced upon him when the Venetians demanded his help; Genoa had been demanding more rights while trying to force Venice and Pisa from the city – and it was that
which had led to Qalawun’s attack. Acre, though, Acre must be safe. That was Philip’s belief.

Lady Maria was content with his assurances for now. But it was essential that she keep her contacts in Egypt. If Acre were to be captured, she could return to Lydda until the fighting was over
– so long as she maintained her friends in Egypt.

Maria knew she trod a fine line. Politics in the Holy Land were always tortuous and dangerous. In the past she had allied herself to Greeks, to Pisans, to Arabs, and now to Genoans too. She
promised to use her influence to help them, and in return, she was paid.

Philip Mainboeuf was determined to prevent war. Wars cost money; he preferred peace and increased trade. He knew the Lady Maria had contacts with the highest in the Commune, and he hoped to make
use of them.

Little did he know that she also had influence at Qalawun’s court. When Tripoli fell, much of her land had been taken. Only by offering to help the Sultan did she retain control. She
advised him on the political atmosphere in Acre, in return for which she kept the revenues from her estates. It was a nice arrangement.

She must see Philip and test his knowledge of recent discussions. Then a message must be sent to Qalawun to justify her position as his spy in the city.